


Jötunn

by stalksoftly



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: AFAB Bloodhound (Apex Legends), Anxious Mirage, Cutting up fruit as an expression of affection, Other, Porn With Plot, Sharing A Tent, Slow Burn, Terrifying Monsters, Violent Battles, angsty with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stalksoftly/pseuds/stalksoftly
Summary: If Elliott was being honest with himself, he didn't really know what the word 'jötunn' meant.If Elliott was being honest with himself, he didn't really understand half the things Bloodhound said - but wasn't that precisely the reason he'd signed up for this hunting trip with them?
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 30
Kudos: 119





	Jötunn

If Elliott was being honest with himself, he didn't really know what the word 'jötunn' meant. 

If Elliott was being honest with himself, he didn't really understand half the things Bloodhound said - but wasn't that precisely the reason he'd signed up for this hunting trip with them? When the offer came, he couldn't stop himself from accepting the invitation, even if spending his time off between matches trekking through mud and sleeping under the stars sounded more like a punishment than a fun weekend activity. 

If Elliott was being honest with himself, which he couldn't fully bear to be, his inability to understand Bloodhound even a little bit felt like an ever-present thorn in his side. 

Elliott had always considered himself "good with people"- no, more than that - charming, a charmer. People were easy for him to read, to flatter, to get on his good side. 

Even the grumpier legends hadn't been an issue for him - they wore their personalities loud and proud, and that was really all the trickster needed to get his foot in the door. A sour demeanor wasn't an issue, because it still gave him something to work with, to play off. Behind every bristly exterior, he'd learned, there was always an ego waiting to be stroked. 

But Bloodhound was different. 

Bloodhound slipped between his fingers like water every time. Like water, he couldn't begin to get a grasp on them. 

Match after match, fighting with or against them, Elliott tried and tried and tried and failed and failed and failed to understand the hunter. He felt haunted by all his efforts to predict their behavior, to bond with them, to counter them while they effortlessly parried his every attempt. 

Fighting against them was almost ironic when it wasn't terrifying - Elliott, adjusting his backpack straps, thinks back on the dank shadows of artillery, of the gunfire all around him, of his hands shaking with adrenaline as he rummages through his hastily looted items for a syringe. 

He remembers thinking he’s hidden when a faint red light buzzes over the room, highlighting his body. He remembers their boots pounding against metal floors as they kick open the door and he remembers throwing out a dozen of his holopilot decoys and cloaking himself instantly. This maneuver always worked to buy him time against any other legend but he’d been met with a spray of bullets to his back before he could ever whip around and draw his pistol.

Elliott can't help but note the irony of it all - of the masked hunter who won't even show their smile or their grimace, who never chuckles or allows for even a moment of small-talk, being able to see the little tracks Elliott doesn't even know he leaves behind.

He thinks of all the times he's tried to get them to chuckle or loosen their guard when they've been on the same team and it hurts worse than all the times they've hunted him down - so much worse. He doesn't want to remember, but his brain serves him a memory of their position on top of a building in Fragment. 

He hears his own voice say, "...and is that why you chose to be a scarecrow on Halloween, Houndie? Because you're... outstanding in your field?" He knows it isn't comedic brilliance, but his stomach drops when the masked hunter remains quiet and holds a single finger over their mask, where their lips would be. 

"Quiet," they hiss. "The enemy may be close." 

Rampart doesn't even take pity on him. "Really nailed that one, huh?" she chuckles with a jab of her elbow to his ribs. He remembers trying to shake off the heat building in his face. 

Elliott shakes his head again, trying to rid himself of the memory. No, it's going to be different this time. 

It's alright, he thinks to himself - Bloodhound's just a little different, a little quirky. So what if he can't get them to follow the usual recipe of legend à legend bonding - a couple of free rounds at the Mirage Voyage, maybe a round of tipsy karaoke if he's feeling especially bold - it's all fine, really, he'll just have to do whatever it is that they like to do. 

Unfortunately for him, that's hunting. Just about the only thing he knows about Bloodhound is their love of the hunt and just about the only thing he knows about hunting is that it makes great TV when the prey is other people. 

But game hunting? Hunting animals for sport or food or... who knows what? Elliott doesn't know the first thing about it and he doesn't know the first thing about "jötunn", the prey Bloodhound had briefly told him they'd be tracking this weekend. 

Jötunn. Jötunn... Elliott finds himself repeating the word again and again in his mind as he drags himself up the rock slopes one heavy step of his boots at a time, trying to figure out a way to ask Bloodhound the meaning of the word without making himself look like a complete idiot in front of them again. 

He follows behind them steadily, as he has been for the past hour in almost complete silence. 

When he feels the material of his boot rub against his heel for the thousandth time, undoubtedly forming a blister, Elliott's excitement about the hunt - really more the experience of hunting with Bloodhound - starts to falter. 

Doubt starts to overtake him - was this all a silly venture? Was it possible to get to know the hunter at all or would this all end in another series of embarrassments for him without any insight into Bloodhound's enigmatic inner workings? Was this some kind of joke - with the hunter secretly jeering at him behind their mask? Or were they leading him off a cliff, tired of his endless fumbling attempts to worm his way into their mind? Elliott doesn't want to linger on that thought for too long. 

Instead, he anchors himself to their form like a life raft. They steadily march ahead of him, their steps so deliberate and purposeful in front of him, every footfall somehow silent despite their heavy military issue boots. Their stride is effortless, somehow, and Elliott holds onto it so he doesn't have to focus on the ache building in his own legs.

Another half hour passes, and Elliott sighs again, adjusting the backpack full of gear on his back. He isn't out of shape by any means, but this feels different than all the sprinting in the arena - a little boost from a jetpack would be nice right about now, he thinks, but before he can dwell on it, Bloodhound's helmet turns to the side, to him. 

They stop in their tracks. 

"We can take a break," they say suddenly. 

Elliott jumps a little, taken aback by the sudden break in silence. 

"Oh no, really," he says, breathless. "It's alright, we can keep going - these muscles I've got aren't just for show you know, ha. Wouldn't want to, uh, lose track of the jötunns or whatever, I, uh, I don't want to hold you back." 

He feels his face grow hot again - why was it so hard to form a single sentence around them without feeling like a bumbling fool? 

They turn around fully to face him. Their mask is expressionless - as always - but Elliott feels like their eyes are boring right through him. Picking him apart, somehow, but he doesn't know what they make of him. 

"We both need our energy for the jötunn," Bloodhound states, unfazed. They slip their pack off their shoulders and place it neatly on the patch of dry grass at their feet. "Come now, join me." 

They extend a hand down to Elliott, who freezes when he sees it, almost not believing his eyes. A little jolt hits him, a spark of excitement down his spine, and he takes the hand, the worn leather of their glove soft and warm in his hand. 

They pull him up firmly and Elliott does his best to not scramble and kick, to act natural, to not overthink the gesture. 

He pulls it off with a decent amount of grace and plops himself on the rock next to them.

"Thanks!" he says, smiling. He slips off the straps of his backpack and tosses it between his legs. 

They sit themself next to him on another rock, and unsheath their knife from their belt. Elliott watches with one eye, trying not to stare, but he's already hungry for more - more of whatever Bloodhound is giving him, which isn't a cold shoulder for once.

They dive a hand into their drawstring backpack, rummage for a moment and pull out an apple. With the same intent and precision they bring to the arena, to scaling the mountain on their trek, they begin to peel it meticulously. 

Elliott starts to catch his breath. 

"Whew, this is quite the workout," he says with a breathy laugh. "Makes me wish we could've snuck some jetpacks off the supply ship."

Bloodhound keeps carving the apple, silent for a moment. 

"Yes," they say. "It is a difficult journey. But there will be spoils."

Elliott nods eagerly. 

"Cool cool cool, right, it'll all be worth it," he agrees, not knowing what he's agreeing with - he can't imagine game meat or perhaps a cool piece of animal hide is worth all the fuss, but he knows he has to humor Bloodhound if he wants to know how they tick. 

Curiosity gets the better of him. 

"Say, Hound," he starts - they keep carving, not looking up. "What exactly are these things, the jötunns? Please tell me they're little cuddly space rabbits we can turn into a mean stew later... I'm a pretty decent cook, you know." 

Bloodhound breaths out, a little tinny huff echoing inside their mask. Elliott almost misses it - but he doesn't, and he almost can't contain himself... did he just make Bloodhound laugh? 

He pushes down the inexplicable feeling rising in his stomach and tries to focus on their words. 

"No, felagi," they start, tossing a curled piece of apple peel onto the ground. "They are much more." 

They pause and split the apple into quarters, digging out the seeds with the tip of their knife. 

"The jötunn are large and vicious - worthy opponents."

They hand the cut apple slices to Elliott.

"Thanks," he says absentmindedly. "Say, uh, just how large are we talking? I know you're like the best hunter in the galaxy, but I've only ever fought legends - and you know how that goes half the time." 

"Do not doubt yourself, you are more vaskr than you give yourself credit," they say, not looking up. They wipe their knife over the thick fabric of their pants, back and forth with deliberate strokes. 

Elliott shrugs, not sure what to make of the compliment, if it is one. 

"Not really sure what that means," he says, giving another breathy laugh. He hopes they'll explain further, but Bloodhound doesn't answer for a long time, masked eyes still fixated on the knife in their hands. They tuck it neatly back into its sheath and Elliott thinks, fuck, he's messed up again. Fuck, the window into their mind is shut tightly, locked once again. 

"You'll see soon," they say suddenly, standing up. "Come now, we have to make good time before dark." 

They hoist their backpack onto their shoulders and resume their steady climb up the summit again. 

\--

Elliott rubs his socked feet together inside the warm fleece of his sleeping bag and stares into the darkness above him, inside their tent. 

Outside, he hears the trickle of water and the clamor of pewter mugs being rinsed. Bloodhound had urged him to go and set up his bedding after he'd dined in front of them, waiting for them to unpack some of their own snacks, a moment which never came. 

He'd warmed himself a little mixture of oats over the fire they'd built before Elliott had even fully settled himself and his gear into the small clearing and asked, "Hey, did you bring anything to eat? You want some of mine? You must be starving." 

But they'd just quietly shaken their head and murmured a curt, "no, thank you." Instead, they'd pulled out a whetstone and run their knife across it again and again, smooth strokes, while Elliott scarfed down his dinner. Exhausted from their daylong hike, the silence wasn't even really a bother - staring at them through the flames with a mouthful of warm oats felt almost meditative, trance-like. 

Now, tucked into his sleeping bag, with his eyes feeling like they’re full of sand and his muscles aching something awful, he stares and stares, unable to comprehend the reality of his situation. Why was he here again, out in the middle of nowhere, rocks digging into his back and a biting chill cutting through his body? 

Bloodhound. 

Bloodhound had invited him along. 

Exhausted but not enough to drift away fully, Elliott retraces the pivotal moment that'd led to him being on the side of a mountain inside a tent, while Bloodhound put out their campfire and tidied up his dishes. 

_He remembers the debriefing hub, where most of the legends were being treated by medical staff. No sense of urgency, those downed in the arena just getting quick patch ups and respawns, another part of the routine of battle while the adrenaline was leaving everyone's systems. The nerves and the excitement were the worst of it, especially with reporters trying to snatch anybody and everybody walking by for a rundown of their performance in the arena._

_Elliott had been babbling nervously with the other legends, doing his best to dodge any potential interviews while his nerves subsided. Even if he'd been patched and restored back to full health, his brain hadn't caught up with the state of his body yet. A shotgun blast to the stomach had taken him out sometime mid-game, and the lurching feeling of shock hadn't fully subsided yet._

_Almost good as new physically, Elliott had roamed from familiar face to familiar face, blowing off nervous but jovial steam with every encounter. He'd handed a trembling Wattson a bottle of water and lightly ribbed Wraith for fumbling the final encounter that landed her squad at second place. Even Caustic received a hearty clap on the back and a winning smile, even if the older man recoiled and glared._

_Still roaming, still high on the rush, still feeling like a marionette being yanked in every direction, Elliott almost hadn't seen Bloodhound until he'd nearly rammed into them._

_"Mirage," they'd said in their quiet, even tone. They gave him a short nod._

_"Heya buddy," Elliott had said, voice still buzzing, "No need for that - game's over now. Just call me Elliott." The laugh that followed felt a little strained, but it wasn't ingenuine._

_"Join me on the hunt this weekend," they'd said. "If you choose." A brief pause, a moment of thought before adding: "Elliott."_

_Overwhelmed on every end, Elliott didn't bother with a second thought._

_"Hell yeah, buddy. Sounds like a date to me."_

He hears a rustle and the slow pull of the zipper of the door of the tent. More rustling, a sock-footed Bloodhound steps inside, dangerously close due to the size of their tent. They'd brought it along, briefly assuring him it was fit for two people, but Elliott feels a spike of something inside him when they lean over him to adjust their own sleeping bag. 

More shifting and rustling, he hears the unclasping of buckles. Everything so dark around them, all he can see is their silhouette pulling the mask off their nose and mouth, setting it gently next to their sleeping bag. They pull their goggles off next, and finally their helmet. Everything silent around them, Elliott hears the snap of a rubber band and the faintest stir of them shaking out their long hair. 

Wordlessly, they climb into their own sleeping bag, only inches away from him. They settle onto their side with a soft sigh. For the first time, Elliott sees a hint of their own exhaustion, something they'd carried and tucked away so easily during the entire journey. 

Elliott turns to his side, facing Bloodhound. Still blinded by darkness, he nestles his face into the crook of his arm, a makeshift pillow. 

Across from him, he feels Bloodhound's breath softly ebb and flow, just barely brushing against his face. 

Something catches in his throat. Even if he can't see, no matter how much he wills his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he feels equally exposed. He feels caught off guard by the intimacy of the moment - of being so close to them in their unmasked state, no more physical barrier separating their bare faces. Elliott swallows sharply and inhales. 

"Bloodhound," he says. He can't help himself. 

"Yes?" they answer so softly that he almost doesn’t catch it.

"Why did you invite me along for this?" He pauses. "Doesn't really seem like you." He can't bear to bring his voice above a whisper. 

"What do you mean?" they ask. 

For the first time, Elliott feels exhausted by their evasiveness. Maybe it's because his feet are throbbing with blisters, or it’s because the hard ground beneath him is unforgiving to his aching hips, but he can't bring himself to keep lightening the mood in the presence of their stoic attitude any longer.

"I think you know what I mean," he says, not unkind, not forceful, but direct. "You and I aren't exactly close and, correct me if I'm wrong, but you're more of a loner in your free time. So like, no offense, but why am I here?" 

"Why are you here?" they answer, their tone still so infuriatingly cool. 

Elliott rolls his eyes in the darkness, wishing they could see him. 

"Dude. Buddy. I'm here because I wanted to get to know you, but I'm talking a lot here and you're not answering any of my questions. You invited me! Why?"

Exasperated, he continues: "You wanna be friends or something? It's alright if you're just shy, hell, I can work with that, but like... I just spent like 10 hours walking up a cliff with you in almost total silence and I'm not even sure if you really want me here." 

Silence creeps into the tent as Elliott takes a pause, waiting for Bloodhound's answer. It doesn't come right away. 

Just when he thinks they won't answer him at all, that they've waned back off into themself, they give a quiet hum.

"Elliott," they begin, carefully. They chew on their words for a moment. Elliott waits patiently.

"I have seen you in the arena," they say. "I have watched you face opponents with courage in your heart, with great rikr. You're a strong fighter. Together we can take down the jötnar that has been roaming this area." 

Elliott chuckles in disbelief. 

"Yeah, right, okay," he says, still laughing, his self-deprecation settling over him like a comfortable blanket. "I know I'm like, a decent shot with a wingman and I've got Ma's holotech to confuse the hell out of everybody, but you're either lying or dumb - no offense - if you think I'm the best guy for this job. Seriously. Sorry to disappoint you." 

He hears the rustle of them shaking their head. 

"Elliott. May I ask you something?" 

"Shoot." 

"Why do you wish to befriend everyone you fight against? Do you wish to know your foe's weaknesses? To best them?" 

Elliott hums this time, and clicks his tongue. He has to think for a moment, never having wanted to dig deeper on his reasons behind anything, afraid of what the closed doors inside him might reveal. Still feeling vulnerable, still feeling the intimacy of the moment, he takes a peek inside himself. 

"Hmm," he starts. "I don't know, this might sound silly but I figure... you gotta be crazy to play the games. Like it's no 9 to 5 - let's be real here. You gotta be a little crazy and probably pretty lonely to put yourself through them, even with all the fame and money they promise you. You can't really unsee the million times you're running from missiles, dodging grenades, getting sprayed with an SMG. And it's like nothing else - if you have family and friends, they're not gonna get it, not like we do." 

He pauses for a moment, feeling a little bashful about how much he's talking, how much he's talking about things he doesn't really say, but Bloodhound waits patiently for him to continue. 

"I figure we're all kind of bonded by the crazy hard stuff we put ourselves through. We can't all be that different. And like, why not try and make easier on ourselves and each other by not, uh.. losing our humanity in it all? And like, everybody needs a friend." 

Elliott buries his face in the crook of his arm, trying to hide himself from the conviction in his own voice. He waits, hearing only Bloodhound's soft breathing. 

Maybe it's the exhaustion, the warm creep of sleep overcoming them, but when they speak, there's something softer, gentler around their tone. 

"Tomorrow I will tell you more about the jötunn, the purpose of this hunt. But Elliott-" They pause, hesitating. Elliott guesses they're feeling a little exposed themself and it warms something inside him. 

"Yeah?" he urges them on. 

"You are a felagi fighter. You are stronger than you know." 

Elliott doesn't know what to say to that, what to make of it, so he stays silent, face buried, until he hears Bloodhound's breathing across from him slow. 

He falls asleep. 

\-- 

Elliott doesn't know if he wakes up because of the ache in his hip, the boiling heat inside the tent or because of the aching need to relieve his bladder. But he wakes up, groggy and sore, to a tightly rolled sleeping bag next to him. 

He feels dazed for a moment, but the memories of the day - and the night - before all come rushing back. It's too much for his early morning brain to make sense of, so he just stretches and rubs at the soreness in his legs. 

When he finally sits up and unzips the tent, the cool breeze outside offers him relief. 

The first sight he sees, though, makes him forget about the impact sleeping on the hard ground has left on his body. 

Bloodhound is there, sitting by the small fire, spoon of brown rice halfway to their lips. Their uncovered lips. 

Elliott freezes on the spot, agape for a moment, almost too startled to comprehend what he sees. 

"Hey there, uh, good morning," he says, taking in the sight before him. Bloodhound's goggles are on and so is their helmet, but it seems so revealing compared to their usual get-up that Elliott feels his face grow hot. 

"Good morning," they say, spoon still frozen in place. 

Elliott doesn't want to, but he tears his eyes away, knowing that he can't keep staring without making them uncomfortable. He unzips the tent fully and clambers out of it gracelessly, one sock only half pulled onto his foot. 

"I'm gonna, uh, visit the little boy's room real quick," he says, bending over to pull it back on and half slip into his shoes. He keeps up his fumbling pace and makes his way behind the tent, down the little hill they'd pitched it on, until he finds a couple of saplings and bushes. Far enough away, he unzips his pants and relieves himself.

Standing out in nature with the soft morning sun cutting through the trees, Elliott can't help but think about the pink scar he saw slashed across Bloodhound's face, about their full lips parted to blow on their hot rice, about- 

He shakes his head again, chalking up his dazed excitement to having spent the night in higher altitudes, less oxygen, the excitement of sleeping outside for the first time, all of those things combined.

He tucks himself back into his pants and briefly bends down to properly slip on and lace his shoes before making his way back up the hill. Finally awake now, he feels more prepared. Finally awake now, he takes it upon himself to warn Bloodhound that he's returning, so as not to startle them again. 

"Alrighty, I'm starving - can't wait for some of that delicious breakfast you cooked up for me - just kiddin' of course, I can make my own," he announces, but when he returns to the camp, he finds Bloodhound in the same state, scraping rice from their mug. 

They don't look up at him, but he can't help but notice the rosy tint of their cheeks - marred on one side by a creeping web of pink scarring - and dotted with sparse freckling. 

"I made enough for two," they say quietly, munching the remainder of what's left in their mug. 

"Aw, thanks, you shouldn't've," he says. He helps himself to the pot and fills his own mug, before seating himself across from them. 

They sit together in silence for a moment, Bloodhound seemingly scraping invisible remnants of rice out of their mug. Unwilling to let the awkwardness continue, Elliott clears his throat. 

"So, hm, last night, you told me you'd tell me more about what we're hunting," he says, and scoops a big spoonful of rice into his mouth. 

"Yes," they answer, tilting their head up a bit. A smile starts to creep across their face, but it falters, and they bite their lip, like they're punishing it for revealing something they didn't want displayed. 

It tugs at something inside Elliott. 

"In my language, 'jötnar' means 'devourer'. Jötunn is more than one," they begin. 

"Hmm," Elliott says, brows furrowed. "Gotta be honest with you - don't really like the sound of that one, chief." 

"They are large, ferocious, difficult opponents. They feast on any being they can best," they continue. "But they can be outwitted with skill." 

"Right, right, right," Elliott says, nodding. "Okay, I'm assuming you've done it before and you know what it takes?" 

"Yes," they answer. "I have faced them before." 

"So, uh, why are we tracking them down like this?" 

At this, Elliott sees their mouth twitch, a little tug of sadness... or disgust? forming on their chapped lips. He wishes he could see the rest of their expression, but he works with what they give him. 

"It's difficult to explain," they say.

Elliott munches for a moment, letting them think. When they bite their lip again, taut with hesitation, he carefully nudges them along, overcome by his curiosity. 

"Is this... sort of like, uh, a quest for revenge?" 

They shake their head quickly. 

"No, it is difficult to explain," they say again. 

"You don't have to, if you don't want to... I feel like this mission is pretty important to you, though," he says, shrugging. He takes another bite of his meal, welcoming the fullness in his belly. 

"It is," they say again, quickly. "And I want to tell you. It is difficult, but not impossible." 

They bite their lip again and turn around to grab their mask. Before anything else, they place it across their face and buckle it in place. They busy their hands with splashing water from their canteen into their mug, wiping it clean with a little rag fished out of one of the many pockets on their gear. 

Finally comfortable again, Elliott figures, they continue. 

"In my culture, we place a heavy importance on the will of nature. She is neither cruel nor kind. The Allfather designed her to be perfect, balanced. We try to live in harmony with her and his will." 

Elliott doesn't really know what to say - it's all completely foreign to him, but he listens intently, so eager to find out more about where they come from. 

"They are an anomaly- a tortured creation of man. The IMC experimented on many innocent creatures in search of something they could use on their foes. They created the jötunn, and when they could not harness its strengths, they discarded it in remote areas like this one, where it continued its hideous existence." 

Elliott feels a sense of dread wash over him - he's heard plenty of tales about the ruthlessness of the IMC, its oppressiveness on a variety of planets, but this is a new level of awful. He's not really sure he wants to meet this creature that Bloodhound is so intent on tracking down, but he feels like he's in too deep. 

"Um," is all he can manage for a moment, suddenly done with his breakfast. He sets down his mug.

"Felagi fighter... Elliott," they say, "I'm sorry for not explaining sooner. Be truthful with me if you think you cannot fight it, and if you want to go, I can continue this fight alone."

"Damn, uh, Bloodhound, I wish you'd told me a little sooner, like maybe before I went into this full swing." 

"I was afraid you would not join me," they explain. "But I know it is selfish. I'm giving you the opportunity to go now, if you wish." 

Elliott breaths out through his mouth and places both hands on his knees. He doesn't know what to say, really, he doesn't know if he really wants to hunt down some crazed genetic experiment made by the IMC, probably created as a weapon of war. He doesn't know what to make of the fact that Bloodhound's people felt the need to name it 'devourer'. He doesn't know if he can really be of any help, if he can defeat some sort of nightmarish monster when he's only ever fought people in a synthetic televised arena. He just doesn't know, but he leans forward and sighs. 

"I'm in."

Bloodhound is still for a moment, rag still in hand. 

"Are you sure?" they finally say. 

"Yeah," Elliott says, standing up. "Yeap. I can tell this is really important to you and I'm actually kinda tickled that you invited me along for the ride." He gives them one of his winning smiles, hoping it'll hide the nerves bunching up inside him. 

"Thank you," they say, plainly, and Elliott wonders if they're smiling too - something inside him tells him that they are. 

\-- 

The second day of hiking is both easier and harder than the first. 

Elliott welcomes the fact that most of the vertical incline is behind them now, his muscles still sore from the day before, but he finds himself huffing and puffing more than before.

"Damn," he says, completely out of breath after the second hour or so, "I didn't think I was this out of shape. I mean, look at me and tell me you think I can't handle a teensy little hike. The tabloids would never let me forget it." 

He tries to laugh at his own little jokes, but finds himself coughing. 

"It is the altitude," Bloodhound answers, stopping to turn back and face him. "Not everyone adjusts to it." 

"I feel like it doesn't bother you even a little," Elliott says, breath catching up to him. He places his hands on his hips, happy for the pause. 

Bloodhound shrugs their pack off again, this time choosing to sit criss-cross on a patch of wild grass. They pat the spot beside them and dip a hand into their backpack, retrieving their canteen. They offer it to Elliott, but he refuses, pointing to the flask on his belt. 

Elliott does take the invitation to sit with them, though. 

"I am simply good at hiding my exertion," they say. 

"And just about everything else," Elliott says, meaning it as a light rib, but he wishes he could eat his words when Bloodhound's shoulders stiffen next to him. 

They don't address it though, and wave a hand at the landscape around them.

"Do you notice anything, felagi?" 

Elliott takes a moment to look at what they're pointing at and he sees... a beautiful landscape, late morning sun cutting through the sparse coniferous trees, silent and unforeboding. Behind the foliage, he can see some of the sky, some of the valley behind it and he reminds himself to snap a couple of pictures before they go, something to send his Ma when she asks him what he's been up to lately. 

"Hmm, it's real beautiful out here," he says. "Peaceful. Loving the trees and stuff, I don't see too much of this in the city really." 

Bloodhound shakes their head. 

"No, felagi, look closer." 

Elliott squints, not sure if he's missing a pretty little bird or some other noteworthy sight. 

"What do you hear?" 

"Oh, nothing," Elliott says. "It's so nice and quiet-" 

"Yes," they interject, the slightest bit impatient, but not unkind. "Elliott, we are in a wild and natural landscape. There are no animals foraging, no birds or little flyers chirping. Does that seem strange to you?" 

"Now that you say it..." Elliott feels a little bit foolish, but he's not the expert on nature - if anything, the silence had been nice, a nice relief from the electric bustle outside his apartment in the city. 

"The absence of something is a marker," they say. "The devourer has been through here - other creatures sense its unnatural state and heed. Now look again." 

Bloodhound waves their hand again, this time stopping to point their finger into the little patch of trees. 

Elliott squints, scanning the area for anything small he might've missed - some little unnatural detail - maybe footprints in the underbrush? He looks and looks but finds himself feeling foolish again, unable to turn up anything out of the ordinary. 

"Ugh, I give up," he finally relents. "I guess I'm not much of a tracker after all." 

"Felagi," Bloodhound says, pointing again, something like amusement in their voice. "The three saplings in the middle are bent over, cracked. All the bushes beneath are flattened. Sometimes the biggest tracks are the easiest to miss." 

Elliott runs a hand through his hair and breaths out through his mouth, ending it with a quiet whistle. 

"Alright, you still sure you want me here?" he says, jokingly, feeling a little more apprehensive now that he knows this creature can flatten trees and trample bushes and scare all the other creatures into hiding.

He startles out of his fearful thoughts when Bloodhound lightly bumps his shoulder with theirs. They hand him a piece of apple, freshly peeled and carved - Elliott hadn't noticed them peel the fruit, but he accepts it with a smile. 

"Yes," they say. They reach up to unclasp their mask and their cheeks are flush again, but they don't look at Elliott. Instead, they slice another piece from the apple and bring it to their lips. 

\--

By late afternoon, Elliott feels like he's ready to crash for the night. 

Following behind Bloodhound had been more pleasant this time around, less awkward, with them turning around every so often to check on him- along the way, they'd pointed out facts about the landscape and its natural inhabitants, details Elliott would've missed entirely if it wasn't for their keen eye. His favorite had been spotting the nest of a ground squirrel family, all wary of their presence but a cute little diversion between the larger, more frightening tracks Bloodhound had pointed out to him.

Times passes quickly with their occasional chatter along the way, but Elliott feels exhausted by the thin air, the burning sun mixed with the strange chill cutting through his light sweater. He's just about to suggest that they pitch the tent soon, maybe call it a night early, when Bloodhound's hand meets his chest, pushing him back. 

"Careful," they whisper, already crouching low. 

Elliott's arena instincts kick in and he ducks low, dipping his head behind one of the rocky shapes in front of them. 

"What is it?" he whispers back, already alert, hand poised to pull his wingman from its holster. 

Bloodhound is silent for a moment, busy looking through the scope of their sniper. So swift in their movement, Elliott hadn't even noticed them retrieve it from their back. 

"You should see for yourself," they say, leaning away from their scope to let Elliott take a peek. He leans in, so close to Bloodhound again, focused for a moment on their earthy scent, so warm and inviting - 

"What the fuck?" he whispers, his eyes widening when the image in the scope comes into focus. 

He'd braced himself for the worst but he didn't expect the sight he found. 

Far away, there's a pool of blood, streaked every way across rocky terrain. It almost looks like someone had dropped a can of red paint across the landscape, if it wasn't for the rope of entrails snaking their way in between the rocks. Elliott doesn't want to follow it to its source, but he pans the scope over anyway. When it focuses on the ragged piece of a prowler's discarded limb, he pulls himself away. 

"Bloodhound," is all he can say, his face pale, suddenly feeling clammy all over.

"I know," they whisper. 

"Bloodhound, if it can do that to a prowler..." 

"Elliott," they interject, a sudden sense of conviction in their voice. "We are the predators. We are the natural predators of the jötunn. We can best it in ways that a prowler can not."

Anxiety builds in his gut like a tight knot, but Elliott forces himself to nod. It's really all he can do now, in over his head. 

Bloodhound places a warm, gloved hand on his cheek. 

"Felagi, trust in the Allfather. Together, we are stronger than it." 

Their voice sounds distant and it's all Elliott can do to process their words. He leans into their hand, needing the warmth, needing something steadfast to hold onto. He closes his eyes and nods again, feeling a tiny bit more grounded. 

Brows furrowed, he says, "Alright." 

\--

That evening, the chill in the air feels even more biting than before. Elliott curls himself up in his sleeping bag, but his hands and feet won't warm themselves. He blames the fact that they hadn't built a fire that night, not wanting to catch the attention of the jötnar prematurely, but he knows it's the rolling feeling in his gut that won't let him cozy up. 

He jumps when he hears a rustling on the tent, but it's just Bloodhound unzipping the tent, coming in to rest after excusing themself for a restroom break outside. 

Elliott makes it known that he's still awake but shifting inside his sleeping bag, rubbing his feet together for warmth.

Wordlessly, Bloodhound goes through their nightly routine again - mask off, goggles off, helmet off and all neatly tucked beside them. They crawl into their sleeping bag and sigh with relief. Still so cold, Elliott relishes their warm breath washing over him. 

"Bloodhound," he whispers into the darkness, staring directly at Bloodhound but not seeing them, wishing he could see them. "Why aren't you afraid? Is it because of your faith?" 

They are silent for a moment, their breath the only sound in the night. 

"No," they answer. "And yes." A moment for thought, they continue, "I am afraid, just like you." 

Elliott scoffs. "Doesn't seem like it." 

"I am afraid," they continue, "But you are correct. My faith gives me courage. I know that whatever challenge we face, it will never be too much. The Allfather only puts us in situations we can handle." 

Elliott understands their reasoning with his mind, but it does little to help quell his anxiety.

"But..." he starts, nibbling the corner of his thumb, peeling off a bit of dead skin. "What about the people who've been killed by this creature - creatures like it..." 

"Death is not a punishment," Bloodhound says quietly, their voice small. "It is a part of life. Those who met their end because of the jötunn, because of its existence..." 

Elliott hears something tighten in their voice as they trail off, like they're holding something back, threatened by the thought of it spilling out. 

"They were not given something they could not handle," they say with more composure. "It was simply their time. They fought with rikr - in the eyes of the Allfather, they fulfilled their purpose - and died with honor."

They let out the breath they'd been holding, another wave of warmth caressing Elliott's face. He shivers. 

"I guess so," Elliott says, not entirely convinced. "I hope we don't necessarily end up like that. Contrary to popular belief, I don't have a death wish." 

In the darkness, in the quiet, an ungloved hand reaches out to stroke Elliott's shoulder. 

"It will be alright," Bloodhound says, bringing their hand to cup his cheek again. "If you cannot trust the Allfather, at least trust yourself." 

Elliott leans into their hand again, unable to stop himself, too exhausted to think much of anything except that it's so warm, so gentle despite its callused texture. He shivers again at the contact, feeling a little soothed in spite of himself. 

"That feels nice. I'm so cold tonight," he says, his body inching itself closer to them, almost like it has a mind of its own. Elliott just observes it, allows himself to act without thought for a moment, his mind too drained from worrying, from mulling all day long. 

Bloodhound stiffens for a moment, hand frozen in place. They don't move, their body rigid, on guard. Elliott almost scoots himself back and away again, almost mumbles a hurried "sorry" when they sit up, suddenly, but he decides to wait, unwilling to snuff out the spark of hope inside him. 

In the dark, Elliott still can't see them, no matter how hard he tries to focus his eyes - but he can make out their silhouette, the wild shape of their messy long hair. He stares and stares, waiting for them to say something, half-waiting for them to leave with derision. 

"Come," they say, unzipping their sleeping bag and scooting over to make the invitation clear. 

Elliott shimmies himself out of his own sleeping bag and momentarily curses under his breath at the chilly air that meets him. He shuffles closer to Bloodhound and nestles himself down next to them, tucking his feet into the warmth of their sleeping bag. They lean over to zip it closed around the both of them and eases themself down against him. 

Elliott feels warmer instantly, a rush of goosebumps prickling his skin. He can't fully relax though, pressed against the hunter like this. It's almost too close and he feels embarrassed again, not sure why, not willing to examine why. They'd invited him, so they'd wanted this, but he feels like he's encroaching upon them. 

His face just inches from theirs, he breathes in deeply through his nose, their warm woodsy scent all around him again. 

"Relax," they say, hardly relaxed themself, their body still stiff next to him. They wrap a strong arm around him, a little rough, almost like they aren't used to comforting anybody like this. 

"You first," Elliott jokes, his face pressed against their neck now. He feels them tremble, inhaling sharply. He can't stand the awkwardness, though, and keeps babbling. "Sorry. Sorry about this, but it's way warmer, that's for sure. Thanks. It's okay - we can just knock out, don't have to think anything of this in the morning. I don't kiss and tell - you can ask my publicist." 

He laughs, nervously, at his own joke and Bloodhound trembles again at the tickle of breath on their neck. 

"I'm not worried," they say, finally relaxing their muscles, one at a time. They sink into the ground next to him, their arm suddenly heavy across him. They slow their breathing. "We need our rest, felagi" 

Elliott shifts a little, making himself comfortable. He starts to feel the exhaustion of the day creeping in again and allows it to overtake him, to overshadow his embarrassment. Finally feeling warm and sated for the first time that day, he sinks into a deep sleep. 

\-- 

The next morning, Elliott slowly drifts back into consciousness. The first thing he feels is overwhelming heat, the next thing he feels is the light sheen of sweat on his brow. Eyes still shut, he tries to stretch his legs and almost panics when they won't move, tangled in fabric and pressed down by dead weight. 

He blinks a couple of times, completely disoriented when he's face to face with Bloodhound's peacefully snoozing face and their leg draped over one of his. 

The morning sun is dim inside the tent, dulled by the semi-sheer fabric, but he can see them clearly now, completely unmasked for the first time. Their thick eyebrows are knotted together slightly like they're still on guard, still reading tracks all around them, even in their sleep. So close to them, he takes a better look at the dark dusting of freckles over the bridge of their nose and the soft pink scarring around their left cheek, a violent ripple in their otherwise smooth, pale skin. So close, he can't help the feeling of affection tugging at his chest as he resists the impulse to brush away the stray eyelash on their cheek. 

He admires them for a moment, relishing in their sight, but feeling almost dirty while doing it, not sure if they would allow him the pleasure if they were awake. Elliott closes his eyes again and becomes painfully aware of the erection in his pants, the way it feels tight between his own body, his pants, and Bloodhound's stomach. Feeling the burden of guilt rise inside him, he decides to carefully try and ease a hand out of the sleeping bag to find the zipper. 

In one blink of an eye, before Elliott can register that they've woken up, Bloodhound's hand catches his wrist in a tight grip. 

He meets their eyes, wild and awake and startled. 

"G-good morning, sleepy head," he croaks and they release his hand, their mouth still agape. 

Suddenly, Elliott feels like he's the one exposed - he hopes, prays, wishes that they don't notice what his lower half is doing, but before he can worry about it, they drop back onto their side, hands covering their face. 

"I'm- I'm sorry, I feel like I'm intruding now - Sorry, uh, I thought you might wake up before me again, and I wasn't staring, or anything like that, I didn't even really get a good look-" 

"No," they say, dragging their hands down and off their face. "It's okay. You startled me."

"Sorry," Elliott says again, at a loss for words, unable to look at them again. He reaches back over to the zipper of the sleeping bag and finally finds it. When he unzips it, he almost feels like he's spilling out of it, finally free to move and stretch his legs again. He does and peels himself away from Bloodhound, facing away from them so they don't catch sight of his situation, so he doesn't die from embarrassment on the spot. 

He stands up and almost tears his head through the fabric of the tent, cursing at his own clumsiness. He fumbles with the zipper on the tent and finally manages to stumble his way out of it, finally out and free in the cool, crisp mountain air. 

Elliott's thoughts are still all tangled in Bloodhound, the sight of Bloodhound lying beside him, the sight of Bloodhound's face just inches from his, as he makes his way to a little gathering of bushes not far away, and he relieves himself into the base of a tree, his erection finally wearing down from all the commotion. 

He sighs for a moment and rolls his shoulders as he pisses, trying to shake away some of the ache and fatigue in his muscles, trying to ground himself a little. As he tucks himself back into his pants, he takes in the scenery again, admiring its serene beauty, its stillness, its...

Elliott notes how quiet everything is again this morning, without bird calls or the persistent hum of insects filling the air. All he can hear is a soft breeze and the light swish of pine needles. He squints and scans the sparse coniferous trees before him, wondering if there's anything his untrained eye could spot without Bloodhound's assistance, anything that could help them on their hunt... 

An anomaly juts out at him - something that doesn't seem to fit the organized chaos of nature. Distant, just barely visible, he sees a neat little pile of rocks stacked high, seemingly organized by size - largest on the bottom, growing smaller as it reaches the top. 

Still squinting at it with his hand on his fly, he almost flies out of his skin when a hand lays itself on his shoulder. 

"Fuck!" he says, whipping around to face Bloodhound, their eyes now hidden by goggles but the rest of their face still visible. 

"Please, felagi," they say, a small smile tugging at their lips. "You are making me nervous." 

"Bloodhound," he says, laughing nervously to ease his own tension. "Buddy, you really know how to sneak up on somebody." 

"It is my specialty," they say, before continuing. "What were you looking at? Did you notice any strange signs?" 

"Hm, yeah, actually," Elliott replies, a little bit proud of himself. "First of all, I remembered what you said about it being too quiet. It's reeeal quiet again..." 

They nod in affirmation. 

"And-" he continues, pointing. "There's that weird rock pile over there. Doesn't really seem like something a regular animal would make? Don't know what it means, though." 

"Very good," Bloodhound says, and Elliott beams at the small bit of praise. They point to his feet, though, before acknowledging the rock pile. 

"Did you see this?" 

Elliott looks down to see that one of his boots is inside a wide, shallow puddle. 

"You are standing in the footprints of a jötnar," they say. 

Elliott sighs and folds his arms. "Alright, alright, alright, in my defense, I was a little distracted when I ran out here - you know how mornings are... you're dazed and groggy and whatever- more importantly, are you telling me that thing stomped all around us while we slept and chose not to eat us?" 

Bloodhound shakes their head. "No, the tracks are a bit older. Perhaps from yesterday, filled with a day’s worth of morning dew." 

"So we're right on its trail?" Elliott asks. 

"Precisely. Come now, eat breakfast with me before we set out. We need our strength as we draw nearer to it." 

With that, they wave their hand and turn on their heel, leading the way back to their camp. 

Over a cold breakfast of trail mix and stale bread rolls Elliott had brought from home, not quite anticipating the length of their journey and what might really satiate him, Elliott thinks back to the other strange sight near their camp. 

"So, uh," he starts, one cheek full of nuts and raisins. "What's with the big old pile of little rocks? Never seen anything like that. I thought when hikers stacked rocks, it was just a couple to mark the trails and this isn't exactly... a trail, I guess." 

Bloodhound nods, crunching on a hard roll. 

"Yes," they say, swallowing. "It is not a marker to indicate a trail, but I pass it often while hunting." 

"Oh, you come here often?" Elliott says, unable to help himself. He grins and nudges their shoulder. 

A small smile on their lips, they say, "Yes. Sometimes." 

\--

After breakfast, with all their gear once again rolled tightly and packed neatly onto their backs, Bloodhound and Elliott stand before the stacked rocks. The pile is much larger up close, about the size of a truck. Elliott stands with his hands on his hips, observing. 

Bloodhound starts to undo some of the stack, kicking some of the rocks at the base away with their boot. 

When enough rocks have been displaced, Elliott sees the white head of a bone start to emerge. Bloodhound crouches before him and grabs it with one gloved hand, unceremoniously yanking it loose.

The bone is relatively thick, and pretty long. It looks familiar, somehow. Elliott studies it for a moment, brows furrowed. It looks like... a human femur. He isn't exactly the expert on anatomy, but he can't shake the thought from his mind. Anxiety starts to creep over him. 

"W-what is this exactly?" he says, carefully. 

"It is the burial place of a jötnar," Bloodhound says, not looking at him. 

"They bury their victims?" he says, hoping for a different answer than the one he gets.

"No," Bloodhound says, hesitating for a moment. "This is the cairn of a jötnar. This," they say, kicking the bone. "Is the skeleton of a jötnar." 

"Um," Elliott says. "Um... I don't really understand. That doesn't look like... the bone of any sort of creature. You know what this looks like, right?" 

Bloodhound is still for a moment. Then, their mask moves, nodding. 

"You'll see..." 

"See what?" Elliott feels his palms start to sweat. He doesn't want to think the worst, he really doesn't, but this doesn't exactly look like the best. His agitation rises to his throat. "See that we're hunting down a human? Some sort of crazed super soldier the IMC tortured? I... I know what we do for a living seems similar but Bloodhound... you know we can be respawned, and we're consenting... it's... this would be..."

"Murder?" Bloodhound says quietly when the word won't come. 

"Yeah," Elliott says, already working the skin on his lips over with his teeth, drawing a bit of blood. "Don't you think so too?"

"Elliott..." they say quietly, now turning to face him. "You have to trust me. You have to trust that this is different." 

Elliott throws his hands up, overwhelmed, like he's trying to shield himself from anymore damage. 

"I don't know that I do," he says. "I've only just gotten to know you." 

"Elliott..." they say, a quiet pleading in their tone. 

"Bloodhound," he says firmly, staring at their stubbornly impenetrable mask. 

"Please. Please come with me so you can see. The jötnar isn't a person... it's... it's..." They fail to find the right words and curse under their breath in their trilling accent. 

"Human?" Elliott says, suddenly feeling very, very tired. 

"In a way," Bloodhound says, still lost in their thoughts. "But you have to see. You have to see for yourself."

A twisted form of stubbornness rises up in Elliott, but not to counter Bloodhound. His own curiosity so unrelentingly stubborn, he says, "Fine."

Bloodhound's mask nods ever so slightly. 

"I'll come with you."

\--

The rest of the morning walk is quiet again, even more quiet than the first day. Elliott notes how Bloodhound carries a tightly spun tension with every step, somehow ambling on before him with even more vigor than before. Elliott, feeling so drained from their conversation, the days of hiking and sleeping on rocky terrain, from this entire endeavor, doesn't understand where their energy comes from, but he can't bring himself to ask. 

He has to know. A small ray of hope lives inside him - one that tells him this can't be what the evidence suggests. The small ray of hope that arose when Bloodhound cut fruit for him, that warmed him when he was cold, that allowed him to see their smile. He hopes, but doesn't know, that Bloodhound isn't about to make him an accomplice. 

Even on their rest break, their conversations remain quiet, minimal. Bloodhound offers him their canteen and he breaks off a piece of bread for them, but there isn't much to say. 

They inform him that the tracks have grown fresher and Elliott shrugs, nods. 

"How long 'til we see it?" 

"Not sure," they say. "The creature is fast. But we are not far behind." 

Not far behind is an understatement, because the next thing Elliott hears is an agonized, hollowing cry echo through the valley at the base of their summit. It's far enough that he knows they aren't under direct fire, but near enough that he knows they've found it. 

They've found the jötnar.

Bloodhound, never phased under pressure, grabs their pack and swiftly shoulders it, keeping their rifle in their hands. They wrap the sling around their arm with practiced ease and rush forward, throwing themself onto their belly at the edge of the cliff. 

Elliott is slower, to say the least, because he drops his water bottle with a loud bumbling clank. His hands shake with the jolt of adrenaline, but he manages to scrape his belongings and stuff them into his backpack, tossing it over one shoulder to join Bloodhound at their vantage point. 

The shriek was singular, a one time exclamation of agony, and now the air around them is eerily still, even the wind having quieted itself in the jötnar's wake. All Elliott can hear now is his own breathing and Bloodhound's optic clicking as they zoom in and out in the valley. 

He carefully peers over the cliff, squinting. At first, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. At first, it almost seems like the scream itself had been a fluke, maybe a trick played on their ears by a falling boulder. 

But as he's squinting and Bloodhound's optic roves the valley beneath him, he sees a gathering of trees, much closer to them than anticipated, start to tremble. 

"There," he whispers, frantically pointing and Bloodhound exclaims, "Yes," sharply, rifle already pointing in the right direction. 

The trees tremble, like they're seeing something horrifying, and then they begin to shake violently, like they're trying to run away altogether. 

Some kind of force snaps a sapling in two as it forces its way through the clearing, toward their vantage point. 

Elliott's blood pounds in his ears, louder than the commotion below them. His hands grow icy cold and he has to steady himself - he grips Bloodhound's arm for strength and they don't shoulder him away, allowing him to anchor himself to their steady form. 

A pale pink arm reaches out from the trees and Elliott doesn't blink. He stares, unable to think anything, only able to see, to look with anguish pooling in his stomach. 

The arm reaches for a branch, unnaturally high up on a tree, and another arm follows it, reaching for a different branch. When a third arm reaches around the tree's trunk, Elliott's grip on Bloodhound's arm starts to tighten. 

More arms emerge, enough that Elliott loses count, and the jötnar pulls itself out of the patch of trees, half-uprooting one of them in the process. 

Elliott covers his mouth with this hand, not sure if he's devouring a scream or trying to shield himself from the horror, now fully exposed, tearing itself through the valley. 

He sees too many arms to count, but he also sees legs, he sees torsos, he sees faces blended together into a rolling mass of flesh, propelling itself forward with the coordination of a dozen limbs working independently, some of them fused at the base, calloused and cracked, to support the being's full weight. 

Frozen in place by the inexplicable nightmare he can't wake up from, Elliott doesn't realize that it's rushing toward them, that its eyes, all blinking wildly and independently of one another, see them there on the cliff, until a sharp crack tears through the air. 

A bullet strikes the jötnar in one of its heads and all of its mouths open to let out one unified, discordant shriek. Its surface of battered human skin and hair explodes with a gush of red, but Elliott can't look any longer because Bloodhound shakes themself loose of his grip and turns to yank him by the arm. 

"Move!" they cry out, rushing away, pulling Elliott with them. 

They pull him up to even higher ground and as soon as Elliott finds his footing, they release him, turning quickly on their heel to shoot the creature again, between another set of eyes. 

The undulating form rises up, enraged, shrieking again, low and ragged, now moving with more urgency. 

Bloodhound chambers another bullet and fires again, but the jötnar is scaling their summit with inhuman speed and even the hunter can't keep their full composure. 

They push Elliott back behind a boulder, hopefully out of the line of sight of the creature. Elliott is quivering, every part of him alive and fearful, unable to act, unable to recall the reflexes that had come so naturally to him in the arena. 

Their voice tears him out of it with a singular command. 

"Holopilot!" they hiss. 

Elliott blinks and knows instantly what to do, his muscle memory overriding his brain's reaction to the incomprehensible. He presses the button on his holo-pilot device, the one they'd urged him to bring, the one he almost hadn't, fearing the trek would damage his fine technology, and he sends a decoy of himself clamoring down the rocks with near perfect realism. 

The poor, unsuspecting decoy, smiling as it slides down, jogs, and slides again toward the creature, is enough of a distraction for the jötnar, which lunges after it, not quite as fast as the decoy, encumbered by its heavy mass. It’s enough to keep the creature on low ground. 

Bloodhound is right behind it, but they flank to the left, running up to surprise the being from behind - whatever its behind might be, its front and end and sides all looking indistinguishable except for the direction it seems to turn as it chases the decoy. 

Elliott cries out a pained, "Hey!" in a delayed attempt to reel them back in but they're already sliding down with skilled ease, already jumping into action. They make a frenzied leap from the cliff, like a prowler pouncing on prey, and jump onto the mass with their axe, retrieved from their belt, swinging. 

Elliott jumps down from his hiding spot, following right after, driven by something he won't ever be able to explain. He runs into the face of danger, to the edge of the cliff, and is met with a spray of red and carnage. 

Bloodhound is on the creature's back, their own cries swallowed by the deafening screeching of the creature beneath them. Their arm shoots up and down as they hack and slash into it, like they're a force possessed.

Elliott stumbles back at the sight, at Bloodhound gripping a fistful of the creature's hair with one hand for balance as they make a mess of it, with it wildly bucking beneath them. He's almost mesmerized with horror and fascination churning inside of him until the creature bucks so violently that Bloodhound loses their balance. They tumble to the ground at its feet and roll, axe still in hand, arms rising up to cover their face, but it's too late, the jötnar swift despite its mass, swings an arm at them, striking them across their shoulder.

Bloodhound rolls again and kicks themself up to their feet to run for cover, but it reaches for them, grabbing a fistful of their jacket with three hands, all in unison, and it jerks them, hard, sending them flying to a nearby clearing. 

It begins to gallop after them, with a gleeful lightness in its step, when five sharp shots ring through the canyon. 

Elliott quickly reloads his wingman with trembling fingers and dashes for cover, his ears full of the jotnar's agonized cries. 

He sees the beast turn around in every direction, dozens of eyes scanning the clearing for Elliott, but he’s hidden and cloaked in the underbrush of dry grass. He tries to quell his heaving breaths, the giveaway that’d gotten him caught one too many times in the arena, and sends out two decoys, both jogging toward the beast with their useless pistols in hand. 

The beast lunges for one of them and Elliott seizes the opportunity to rush for Bloodhound, who isn’t lying motionless anymore, who rolls over to their side with a grunt. 

Elliott slides toward them and envelops them in his cloak. The two of them are completely hidden now, only visible to one another, and Elliott’s hands fly to their torn shirt, to their bleeding leg, the limb that had taken the brunt force of their tumble. 

“Bloodhound,” he whispers. “I have a syringe, let me stick you and let’s get the fuck out of here while it’s distracted.” 

“No,” Bloodhound spits through gritted teeth. Their ragged breathing almost sounds like a snarl. “Let me finish this. The medication will slow my senses.” 

Their fingers creep into one of their many pockets, trembling, gloves torn and stained. 

They pull out a different syringe, one Elliott recognizes from the arena. 

“Stop,” he hisses, pushing their shoulder down and digging around for his own medicine. “You’re hurt - you know that stuff doesn’t make you invincible!” 

“Please,” Bloodhound says, shouldering away his hand. “I-”

“Why?” Elliott says, glancing over his shoulder quickly, vaguely aware that the jötnar has figured out his decoys aren’t tangible, that it’s wheezing and sniffing around for prey again. “Why do you have to be the one to do this?!”

“Because-” Bloodhound growls, too loud, too forcefully, all desperation, no composure left inside the hunter. “Imagine the pain- the agony- of this creature- look at how hideous, how unnatural, yet look closely and see the faces trapped inside the mass…” 

They tear the cap off the syringe in their hand and toss it aside. 

“Imagine someone you love is one of them. Imagine your brother caught in endless purgatory like this. What would you do to free him?” 

Elliott blinks, taken aback, a sudden spark of understanding taking him over.

“Anything,” he says, backing away from them and onto his heels. 

“Exactly,” they say, grabbing his hand, the one holding the medicated syringe. “I need to combine these-”

The jötnar shrieks again, a bone-rattling cry, as it overturns rocks and crushes trees, desperate, enraged, pained as it seeks its lost prey. 

Bloodhound grabs Elliott’s wrist and plunges the meds into their chest, groaning at the sensation of instant pain relief, instant healing, one that Elliott knows all too well. With their other hand, they stick their own syringe into their leg. Their body stutters, muscles tightening at the mix of sensations. Elliott doesn’t think this is healthy, not by any means, but it all happens too fast for him to intervene, and Bloodhound’s back bucks as they let out a guttural cry. They leap to their feet, out of Elliott’s cloaking range and begin to sprint at an almost inhuman speed. 

Elliott remembers their increased agility, their superhuman maneuvers all too well. 

This time, they don’t bother with leaping onto the beast’s back. They race toward it and the beast can’t react with the same speed, not with its heft weighing it down. Bloodhound raises their axe and slashes, fast and hard, head-on. 

Elliott’s head turns away instinctively, avoiding having to see muscle fibers splitting and tendons exposed. 

Bloodhound cries out again and Elliott has to look, but it's a battle cry this time, something strong and sure. They're running all around the creature, dodging its thundering feet, its creeping arms, creating a massacre of its every side. 

Elliott, pale and cold, raises his wingman again and makes eye contact with one of the faces. It's torn into a grimace he won't ever forget, its eyes no longer enraged, its eyes pleading.

His heart full of secondhand grief, he pulls the trigger and his bullet lands into the face's for head and the eyes glaze over, finally still. 

The entire being begins to falter, shut down with the endless onslaught of violence brought upon it. Bloodhound's frenzy goes on as it crashes to the floor, the screams crying down, one at a time, fading out. 

They don't stop, crying out the loudest now, still slashing. 

Elliott holsters his gun and runs to them. He throws his arms around them from behind. 

They struggle and try to slash again, but the creature's eyes have lost their life, two at a time, one after the other. 

It's completely still now, a mass collapsed in a heap. 

Elliott grips them tighter and pulls them back. 

They fall to their knees and curl forward, still heaving, still crying out, quieter now as their adrenaline starts to fade. 

They yank the mask from their face, mouth twisted and weeping, teeth stained pink from the blood trickling from their nose.

Elliott's arms don't release them, but hold them tighter as they let out their shuddering sobs in a final moment of catharsis. Elliott says, "Shhh, it's okay, it's gone now," babbling anything he can that might sound soothing. He's so overwhelmed, so frazzled, buzzing, but he feels Bloodhound start to slump in his arms. 

He finally gets it, he finally sees something inside the hunter, something about them they hadn't allowed others to see. He didn't know it would be like this, he didn't know his heart would feel so heavy. 

"Shhh… it's at peace now, it's finally free," he says to their form, quietly trembling now. 

\--

Getting Bloodhound back up the hill hadn't been an easy task. With their "ultimate" serum fading, they'd suddenly lost their strength as quickly as it had come on. 

One arm draped over Elliott's shoulder, they'd climbed up the small summit together. 

The only interruption to the silence in the valley had been Elliott's occasional questions, the are you okays, the verbal check-ins, met with Bloodhound’s wordless nods. 

Back up on their perch, where they’d planted their campsite the night before, Elliott carefully sets Bloodhound on a fallen log. 

He busies himself with pitching their tent as Bloodhound sits still, their chest heaving quietly. 

Elliott can’t help but worry a little now, although he feels so tired, so drained, all the adrenaline having wrecked him, leaving him shaking even now that the danger had subsided. As he’s hammering in the tent posts, he stops for a moment to observe his own quivering fingers. He takes a deep breath. 

“You know,” Bloodhound says, finally breaking their silence. They’re now sitting criss cross in front of the log, sleeves rolled up, examining the numerous bruises sustained after they’d used the med kit. Some of them are deep and dark, blossoming over their arm already. 

“Hm?” Elliott says, relieved that they’re speaking again, relieved that they’re still in there and not sealed away more tightly than ever before. 

“My brother and I were not close,” they say, poking the bruise. Elliott winces on their behalf. “I had only seen him as a child, when our parents were alive, but I was small.” 

Elliott doesn’t comment, allowing them to speak, but he’s staring at them now, absorbing every mannerism, every piece of their history they’re allowing him to see. 

“We were separated,” they continue. “He was much older than me, and chose to live in the city. As a child, I preferred the wild outskirts of my uncle’s village. I thought he was stupid. I did not care where he went, when all he did was ignore me.”

They bite their lower lip, shaking their head. Elliott stands and plops down next to them, needing to be close, needing to offer them something. 

“It was later, as I grew older, on my own,” they say, not looking up. “That I decided to track him. To see where my only living kin had gone. It was not easy, obtaining IMC files, but the games allowed me to meet people who could give me information about him.” 

Elliott thinks of the sullen hacker he can’t get enough of teasing. He thinks of the thief with powerful connections. 

“Why would they do this to him?” Elliott asks. He carefully lays his arm around their shoulders and they don’t turn away. They don’t stiffen, but they don’t ease into him either. Their thoughts are somewhere else. 

“The city had not been kind to him - as it is cruel to so many. It was good money, to join this branch of the IMC as a foot soldier. With no connections that they could find, he was an easy test subject.”

Elliott shudders at the thought. 

“I slatra several jötunn before I found this one. I saw it once on one of many hunts and I knew it was him in there without question - our mother’s red hair flaming from the middle, our same eyes in the mass. This one was one of the biggest and I needed help. To rid this world of the agony imposed by man’s cruel will. To help my own blood. To lay him to rest.” 

“He’s in a better place now,” Elliott says, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t know if he can believe it himself, but he knows their faith matters to them, offers them comfort. 

They turn to him. 

“Yes,” is their only reply. Their faces are close, enough for Elliott to feel the tickle of their breath again. He can’t see inside their goggles, but he imagines their brows are straight, serious as always, full of determination. 

They lean forward and bridge the gap between them, mouths colliding. 

Elliott’s eyes widen, then close when he realizes what’s happening to him. They kiss him with more vigor than he’d expected, more force, more bite. It’s sloppy and quick but he kisses them back with the same resolve. 

When they pull back he has to force himself not to follow them, to beg for more. His eyes open slowly and they’re staring at him, their cheeks more flushed than before. 

“Thank you,” they say. 

“D-don’t mention it,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips. 

\-- 

With their bellies full of a hot meal, even if the meal is just another scant helping of oats and a few handfuls of nuts, Elliott starts to feel some of his strength return to him. 

Still, their next task is strenuous. 

Still, Elliott can’t pull himself away from helping Bloodhound, from fully completing their journey.

Together, they gather rocks of all sizes and begin to bury the jötnar in the form of a giant cairn. 

Elliott understands more now, finally processing some of the things that’d happened just today, just hours earlier but in such quick succession that everything had felt muddled and terrifyzing. 

Bloodhound had created the first cairn they’d come across. 

And as they’d now explained to him, the cairn was to serve as a resting place for the souls of the dead- a way to honor them, to bury them so they wouldn’t be disgraced by lying out in the open, exposed to the elements. He doesn’t fully understand the whole ritual, but he thinks of the funerals he’s been to, and the idea isn’t that foreign. 

Hours pass and they work side by side, sharing few words, but Elliott feels a sort of unspoken harmony between them. When he passes a rock to Bloodhound, who places it over one of the many faces, he watches the lower half of their face. It finally looks peaceful. 

Despite the gruesome sight before them, Elliott feels peaceful too, knowing there’s no danger, no pain. The creature is gone forever, no longer trapped inside itself. 

It’s almost too dark to see the cairn come together when they finish, the sun having set during their endeavor, but Elliott stands back, hands on his hips, as Bloodhound places the final rock, and takes in what he can of their hard work. 

He feels relieved, a sweet twinge of sadness in his chest now as he watches Bloodhound kneel before the stone mound. It’s almost inaudible, their voice just barely a whisper above breath, but he hears their harsh rolling language in the quiet night. 

“Til kome ríke þitt, værði vili þin, sva a iarðu sem í himnum,” they say quietly. 

Elliott doesn’t understand the words, but he likes to think he understands their intention. In his head, he says a little prayer too, something more freeform. He thanks the night for their safety. 

He thanks it for Bloodhound. 

\--

Elliott never thought he’d find a thin sleeping bag tossed on rocky earth so comfortable, but it feels luxurious now, after their arduous fight. 

The hike back had been faster, so far, but it was impossible to cover all the ground in one day. 

“Tomorrow will be short, not like the first day,” Bloodhound had explained, eyes poised on their compass. They’d looked to the sun and scanned the valley around them and Elliott had silently thanked them for their skills - to him, one boulder looked like the next, every patch of trees beautiful but indistinguishable from ones they’d passed. Without them as their guide, he wasn’t sure he’d ever make it out of these mountains. “Maybe a few hours. Then you can enjoy a hot shower. No more splashing in the cold stream.”

Their voice had sounded a little amused, a little warmer than usual. 

“Not to be crass,” Elliott had said, matching their amusement. “But that water was so cold, I thought I’d never see my little guy again. Seriously. I think he pulled himself up inside my body out of fear of turning into an icicle.”

Bloodhound had made a noise, sounding something like a hiccup inside their mask, but Elliott had realized it was a healthy, hearty chuckle. He’d laughed with them until they were both catching their breath. 

Now, tucked into the warm sleeping bag, he thinks of that hearty chuckle and it warms him, carries him off to sleep when the feeling of Bloodhound stirring next to him snatches him back to consciousness. 

He can’t see what they’re doing in the darkness, but he hears shuffling, like they’re untucking themself from their sleeping bag. 

He feels a hand wandering, pulling the zipper of his sleeping bag and tossing the flap open. 

Suddenly, a warm and heavy weight eases itself onto his waist. Two hands pitch themselves on either side of his head and Elliott stays still, completely awake now, his heart speeding up. 

“Bloodhound?” he asks softly. “You okay, buddy?” 

His eyes adjust a bit to the darkness but all he can see is the outline of their face. All around his own face, he feels their thick curls, like another tent over him. Their scent envelops him again, the same warm woodsy scent, the one he can’t get enough of, the one that makes him want to draw near and run away at the same time. 

“Thank you, felagi,” they say, their voice completely serious, completely deliberate, full of conviction again. “Thank you for helping me with this hunt. You fought with rikr. You saved me. Your heart is full of courage in ways you won’t allow yourself to see.”

Elliott is quiet for a moment, something warm budding in his chest. He ignores the feeling and opts for his defense mechanisms instead, feeling too vulnerable. 

“Ah, it was nothing, no thanks needed,” he says, waving a hand into the darkness. “I do take bribes though.” 

They shake their head slowly and Elliott thinks he can see their lips curl into a smile in the darkness. 

They don’t try to fight him, not with words. 

Bloodhound lowers their face to his and unites their lips again. This time, Elliott isn’t startled and he lifts his head off the ground to meet their mouth, intense and inviting. 

Surrounded by their hair, enveloped by their warmth, Elliott feels like they’re the only two people on earth. Bloodhound kisses him with the same intensity and fury that they lend to everything they do - they suck and nibble his lower lip and he gasps, a pleasant prickle rushing through him. When they slip their tongue into his mouth, he slips a hand into their hair, pulling them closer, deeper into the kiss. The soft heady groan it pulls out of them makes his head swim. 

So lost in the ebb and flow of their tongues, Elliott doesn’t realize he’s hard until Bloodhound rolls their hips into him. 

“Hnnn,” is all he can manage, gripping their hair tighter - they reply by breaking the kiss, leaving Elliott yearning for only one cruel moment as they nudge his head to the side and nip into his neck.

“Jesus,” he gasps as they suck and bite his soft skin, growing less precise and more frantic with every aching second that passes. They roll their hips against him again and gasp into his ear. 

Elliott untangles his hands from their hair and allows them to roam. His fingers comb across Bloodhound’s back, catching the thin fabric of their long sleeve shirt. His hands find their way to their hips and grip them tightly, pulling them down, urging them to grind against him again. 

They don’t comply. Instead, they lean back, exposing Elliott’s face to the cool air of the tent. His chest heaving, he almost whines at the loss of contact, but Bloodhound doesn’t leave. They pull their shirt off and toss it aside. They tug at the bottom of his shirt, too, and he takes the hint, lifting himself up so they can slide it off his body.

Bloodhound’s hands run over his torso, roaming, hungry, like they can’t get enough of his exposed skin and he shivers, welcoming the contact. 

More carefully than them, again almost afraid that he’s overstepping bounds, Elliott’s hands wander up Bloodhound’s abs, over the taut muscle, over the topographical map of their skin riddled with scars and a soft trail of hair. He reaches their chest and runs a palm over their nipples experimentally. They sigh at the contact, grinding their hips again. 

He runs his palms over their chest again and they whine. 

“More,” they groan. He pinches one of their nipples between his fingers, giving it a gentle tug and their breath catches. Their body tight like a bow string, they can’t hold back anymore. 

They push Elliott back and catch his lips in a kiss again, this time more fevered, more sloppy. Their teeth strike for a moment but Elliott doesn’t notice, instead focused on his own hands, his hands being led by instinct to the swell of Bloodhound’s ass, gripping it firmly through their pants. 

The respond by raking a hand into his hair, tugging him sharply, pinning him down. With their other hand, they work at the fly on his pants, struggling for a moment, finally undoing the button.  
Still kissing him hot and heavy, they plunge their hand down the waistband of his underwear and wrap their hand around his cock. 

Elliott gasps, involuntarily bucking up into their curled fist. He doesn’t know when his need became so overwhelming - all he knows is that he needs this, he needs them, he needs more. He bucks into their hand a few more times as they groan with him, like they’re sharing every sensation with him, until he can’t handle anymore. 

“Please,” Elliott breathes into their kisses. “Can I have you?”

Bloodhound responds by leaving him again, their hand slipping out of his pants, and Elliott worries that he’s maybe waking up from a dream too good to be true, that he’s asked for too much. 

But they lean back again to undo their own pants. Almost clumsy with frenzy, they fall to the side for a moment as they kick out of them, but they waste no time. 

They straddle him again, pushing Elliott against the hard earth beneath them. 

They grind against him again, this time no barriers between their wet folds and his bare cock. Elliott whines needily and Bloodhound responds with a gentle hand around his neck. 

They lift themself up onto their knees just enough so they can use their other hand to guide him to their entrance. 

They ease themself down onto his cock, to the base, and their tight, wet heat sinking over his cock almost pushes Elliott over the edge right then. He breathes deeply and contains himself, reveling in the sensation pooling in his gut. 

Driven by the same need, Bloodhound doesn’t waste any time. No finesse or restraint left, they ride him eagerly, up and down, their hand on his throat acting like an anchor. Every time they come down again, they grind themself against his pelvis, softly whining at the contact. 

Elliott moans more openly, head thrown back, unable to contain himself. He wishes he could see them now, see their face twisted in pleasured agony, but their sounds, their bucking is more than enough for him. 

He feels them begin to tighten around him and his hands find their hips again. This time, one had slides between their legs and Elliott begins to massage the very point they’ve been grinding against him with his thumb. 

Bloodhound leans back, head tossed back, and plants their hands on his thighs behind them. Elliott takes his cue to lift his own hips, to thrust into them faster, and it’s exactly what they need. 

They tighten around him again, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop to focus on his own pleasure, knowing he’ll spill inside them too soon. With measured focus, he rubs their clit with firm, fast circles and fucks into them as they come undone on top of him. Their body becomes taut again, every muscle tight and he pounds them until they start to shudder. Their hips lose control and stutter as their walls begin to pulse around his cock and a low groan, deep and guttural, tears itself loose from somewhere deep inside them. 

“Ohh, Elliott,” they hiss, still pulsing, still tense, still riding out their wave of pleasure. 

Elliott can’t stop, can’t stop his needy thrusts because the sound of his name pouring out of their lips becomes too much to bear. 

His breath hitches as the heat in his belly blinds him. He thrusts one final time, coming hard inside them. 

Bloodhound rides out his wave, this time much slower, until it feels like too much, until he feels overstimulated. 

Feeling the same, they catch his wrist and pull it away from their heat. 

Elliott’s cock still inside them, slowly softening, they slump forward onto him to deliver more sloppy kisses, this time much more languid and gentle. 

“Damn,” Elliott sighs into them, almost feeling drunk with their body all around him. 

They wrap their arms around him tightly and bury their face into his neck. They don’t say anything, but Elliott doesn’t need them to say anything to understand, to feel close to them. Skin on skin, bare chests pressed together, his nails ever so gently drawing shapes onto their back is the only language they need. 

\--

On the journey back, Elliott almost starts to feel a little blue as they near the city. He senses that it’s no different for Bloodhound, despite the horrors they had to face, the monster they had to defeat on their trek. 

They walk side by side, not speaking much, but Elliott isn’t bothered by the silence. So different from the first day of their journey, the quiet doesn’t weigh on him now. If anything, it’s peaceful and he knows he’ll miss this lull when he’s back in his city apartment with sirens and traffic wailing all around him. 

As they’re walking, although the rest of the hike should only take a few hours, Elliott notices that time seems to creep. He notices that Bloodhound seems to drag their feet, so different from the first day of their journey in which they’d scaled the mountain swiftly and surely. 

When they ask him to pause for a break, he starts to wonder if they’re dreading the end as much as he is. 

Feeding into his own doubt, needing it to be clear, he has to ask them something. 

“Hey buddy,” he says, criss cross across from them on the soft grassy terrain. “You okay?” 

“Yes,” the reply quietly. The lower half of their mask is off and it feels natural now, less like Elliott is seeing something stark and forbidden. “Why?” 

“It just seems like we’re going kinda slow. Are your legs feeling alright? You’re not hiding some kind of injury you got in the battle or something, right?” 

“No,” they say, peeling the apple in their hands again, something to keep their focus on while they speak, a gesture that now inspires fondness inside of Elliott. “We can pick up the pace. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Elliott ventures, a little ounce of bravery flooding over him. “I… I kind of don’t want this hunt to end. I mean- It’s over already, the main event, but I… I gotta say, I kind of like being out here with you.” 

Their mouth curls into a little smile. They don’t try to hide it this time. 

“I like it too,” they say, softly, still avoiding his gaze. 

Elliott beams, ready to perform his usual brazen spiel again. 

“Yeah, because I’m the life of the party,” he jokes. 

They snort, looking up for a moment in mock disbelief. 

“Yes, Elliott. That is why I invited you. For your handsome looks and wit. Like a jester, to entertain me.” 

Elliott has to laugh, so delighted to hear one of their rare sarcastic little jabs. 

They huff again, still smiling, still carving their apple. A moment of stillness passes and Elliott bites his lower lip. He can’t stop himself from becoming serious again. 

“Why did you think I was the right guy for this job?” 

Bloodhound pauses for a moment. They slice off a bit of apple with their knife against their gloved thumb and hand it to him. He takes it, warmth blooming in his chest at the gesture. He smiles, a twinge of sadness tugging at his heart when he imagines this might be the last apple they’ll share like this. 

“Elliott,” they start. “I know I was cool toward you when you tried to befriend me so many times.” 

“Well, it wasn’t really that many times, maybe like a- a half a dozen or so, and it took at least that many times to get Renee to come to the bar and sing a little drunken karaoke with me so I didn’t think much of it-” 

“Elliott,” they interrupt, quietly amused but firm. “Let me finish.” 

“Okay,” he says, pretending to zip his lips with a wave of his hand. 

“I watched you and I had to wonder about your intentions. I do not like to mingle. I like my solitude, my privacy, the intensity of the hunt, to be away and out in nature… nature is sensible. Everyone thinks of it as chaos because they cannot control it, but it is harmonious and perfect, as the Allfather designed it, unlike the messiness of civilizations that try to overpower it.”

They pause again, wiping their knife on their pants before sheathing it. They look at Elliott again, not needing a mask to hide the expressions this time when they continue speaking. Elliott loves that they trust him like this now, Elliott cherishes it with everything inside of him. 

“I knew only your TV persona. That you seemed brash and needy. Needing everybody to like you. I thought I was another conquest to you and I refused. I had a greater purpose with the jötunn here. I am easily annoyed with false pleasantries. A waste of time for me.” 

Elliott gestures and pretends to clutch an imaginary arrow hitting his chest. 

“Ouch,” he says. “You weren’t even interested in my ridiculously handsome good looks?” 

“Shhh,” they urge, smiling again. “That is beside the point.” 

“So you admit it? I’m devilishly handsome?” 

“Stop,” they say, laughing. “Do you see how this way you use humor hides who you really are? Why I was careful?” 

Elliott pauses for a moment, not wanting to joke anymore. He furrows his brows, a little confused. 

“Who am I, then?” He pauses again. “And what made you change your mind?” 

“After the matches,” they start, leaning forward and resting their elbows on their knees. “I saw you still so kind to everybody. Interested in your squad and your foes, worried about how they felt. You looked exhausted and anxious and shaken, thus I started to suspect your act was genuine. That you could no longer act in that state, that you were truly kind. A felagi fighter with a heart of courage.” 

“Oh?” Elliott says quietly. He can’t pinpoint what he’s feeling, but he knows it isn’t bad. Perhaps a little exposed, a little surprised that they’d made such piercing, personal observations about him while he’d been unable to crack even the surface of their deal. 

“I knew I could not face my journey alone,” they say. “I did not know you, I took a chance. But I had a strong pull toward you. To know more, to know if you were what you seemed.” 

“Did I deliver?” Elliott asks, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. 

“Yes,” they say. Bloodhound reaches forward to take his hand in theirs. 

“Thank you again for your help, elskan,” they say, giving it a squeeze. 

“Seriously, anytime,” Elliott says so casually, but he means it. He really means it. His heart feels tender with new emotions, but he feels like he’d follow them to the ends of the earth. He feels like he already has. 

They don’t reply and release his hand. They reach for their backpack and begin to shoulder it. 

“Are we ready to go?” they ask, reaching out to him again to help pull him up. Elliott takes their hand and lets himself be tugged to his feet. 

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good to me, I’m all done here-” he says, but he catches himself. “Wait.” 

Bloodhound freezes, their backpack half pulled onto their shoulders. 

“Hm?” 

“This isn’t the last time I’m gonna see you, right? I mean, yeah, we work together. But you know what I mean, right?” 

Elliott feels worry pool in his gut, but it dissipates almost as quickly as it appears when Bloodhound shakes their head eagerly. 

“Please,” they say. “I don’t want it to be. Join me on the hunt again.” 

Elliott grins. 

“Yeah, or next time we can do what I like to do.” 

“Yes, elskan. Like what?” 

“Maybe I can buy you a drink sometime at this little hole in the wall I’ve heard pretty great things about… the Mirage Voyage? I promise you’ll love it.” 

They laugh again, so light and free, music to his ears. 

“Yes, that would be nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up way longer than i intended for it to be (originally i just wanted to see bloodhound and mirage in a tent together) but one thing led to another and i got the sudden urge to write about Feelings and here we are... anyway, i really hope y'all enjoy and don't hesitate to let me know if you do. <3 thanks for reading!


End file.
